


and you will be the last one standing

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dark Knight spoilers, Gen, MAJOR spoilers for DRK 70, Specific Warrior of Light, Stream of Consciousness, Survivor Guilt, alternate title: poor sad kitty needs a hug, not ambiguous, pretty much just word vomit, somewhat disregards the ending of drk 70
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Woe betide the Weapon of Light, for theirs is a sin all-consuming.(reading of other works in series not required)





	and you will be the last one standing

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR SPOILERS for the lvl 70 Dark Knight quest. Written ten minutes after completion of said quest. Emotional word vomit.  
> I stole a line from the game for this and I hold no claim to it.

He did not know why he chose to go to the Rising Stones first, of all places. Maybe there was… he just needed…. He did not know. Gods, he felt so… so _lonely_ , and miserable, and defeated and they had lost so much… _he_ had lost so much, apparently, although even at that thought he cringed at being the focus of attention.

He pushed the door open, still wearing his armour, still feeling his sword heavy on his back. He had never told them—they did not know—and… he had manifested Myste out of his own soul crystal, out of his aether, so much like a primal yet so different. Would they see? Would they tell? He did not care. He needed… something. Someone. Please.

He let his gaze sweep around the room, met their eyes, searching. A few of the Domans were there, and while they blinked confusion at him, they did not see why his presence was unordinary. Such friendly strangers. F’lhaminn was not present, Urianger was not there—did he need Urianger? Did he _want_ Urianger? He did not know. Did he care about him? Yes, he—he felt it, a pang, a ghost of the future, for when that day inevitably came—

No. No more. He would stop that.

A swallow, still looking around, and—

“Ikael?” Thancred, giving a curious glance at his armour, studying it briefly before looking up at him and—oh, his face had creased in concern, just a little bit; did his feelings show? Were his emotions manifest on him right now? If he tried—no, if he hadn’t tried, could he create another Myste?

 _Was_ it concern? He—he hoped, please. He needed—he just needed—

“Is aught amiss?” Thancred again, walking towards him since he had said nothing. Ah. He should move. He did, relaxing his posture, pretending for a moment everything wasn’t swirling about like a storm—the coldest Coerthan blizzard—

—Oh. In his skull.

 He moved forward, met Thancred halfway, and closed his gauntlet around Thancred’s arm. Firmly. He could feel the flesh through the gloves, or at least the give of his skin.

“Ikael?” Thancred, again, sounding—worried? Was that it? Ikael looked at him, confused, tumultuous, not knowing what to think, to feel. He felt... _so_ much—was the Warrior of Light supposed to feel so much? The Weapon of Light?

He did not know how to do this. He did not know how to speak. Not truly. Even back then, it had been Fray—and now, Myste, he supposed. He frowned at Thancred—a worried frown, not an angry one. His mouth he let open, and he searched for words. None came, immediately. He was worried. Was he worried?

“You are beginning to worry me,” Thancred jested, unconsciously using his own words. Ikael looked up at him, into his visible eye, tried to see into his emotions. Were they as deep as his own? As much of an abyss?

He could not see. Yet, Thancred could see at least partly into him. He let him, stared, hoping that this communion would open a door to him so he could be allowed to see both ways.

It did not. Thancred started to frown back, even as Ikael’s own silence rang out. Louder than the clearest bell. Deeper than his heart.

“Ikael, what is it?” Thancred asked. “What happened?”

“Are you worried?” Ikael said back, his voice finding him and jumping ahead. “ _Do_ you worry?”

“I am right now,” was Thancred’s reply. Oh, was he talking about him? That was… so sweet. Good, he cared—please don’t die. Please.

“Please,” Ikael said. “I could not take it.”

“Take what? What are you saying?” He still held Thancred’s arm in a vise-like grip. Thancred said, “I think you should… sit down. Here—”

He tried to lead him to a chair. Ikael followed, confused, and did not sit.

Thancred was beginning to look frustrated. “What happened to you?” he asked. “Did you get hit in the head? Were you overconfident in that shiny new armour you’re sporting?”

He had stared deep into the abyss, and it had stared back. He said, “You,” realising something.

“You have lost people, haven’t you?” he continued. Thancred’s frown slackened. “Do you see them? In a procession?”

“All lined up, to the executioner’s axe,” Ikael said. “Do you wield it?”

Thancred looked at him. He looked back. Thancred said, “Come. Here is not the place.”

Thancred led him to a room with books and clothes and hidden knives. Thancred’s room, he realized. It smelled like him; his scent was lingering in its corners and tripped into a discarded shirt on the floor. Strange. Ikael picked it up.

“Ah—forgive the mess,” Thancred said, and sat down on his bed. There was no mess. Nothing else was out of place. Ikael sat next to him.

 He took off his gauntlet, passed the shirt between his fingertips to feel the fabric.

“I would keep this,” he said, “If you died. Something of yours.”

“I do not plan on dying,” Thancred said. Ikael looked at him.

He wanted to ask a million questions. How did it feel like to lose Minfilia? How did it feel like to be alone? To be possessed? To feel the weight of your sins crushing you? To surrender into despair? Do you fear, every passing moment of every passing day, that you will be the one to rend your loved ones’ souls from their living forms? He had so many questions. Thancred would not answer them all, he knew. They were too personal, not his right to know. Still, he would try some. He said—

“Please don’t,” he said, and his voice cracked.

Gods. Godsdammit. Please. Please.

 He threw off his other gauntlet, ran his hand up Thancred’s arm. Thancred, who was watching him with quiet, knowing eyes.

“Please,” Ikael said, uselessly. He was useless. What was he doing? What was it all for, if they all left? If he failed them all?

“I am not going anywhere anytime soon, Ikael,” Thancred said, gaze softening at him. “Not into the Void, not into death.”

“You will,” Ikael said, because it was the truth. “And I will have sent you there.”

Thancred shook his head. “No,” he said.  

“Yes,” Ikael argued. “Woe betide the man who stands with the Weapon of Light, for death will be his reward. Death for him and his kin and all that he holds dear.”

“And if we did not have you?” Thancred said. It was a challenge, an almost angry one. “How much death would we have suffered? How many of us would have greeted black halls?”

Ikael shook his head. “There are many that see their end from me,” he said. So many. It pained him—why so many? Why did he kill so many? “You will, too. Eventually.” Eventually. Not soon, not ever—if he had any say in it—but alas, he did not.

He could only pray. Thancred said, “My death will be my choice.”

Ikael’s soul twisted. “Please don’t ever die,” he said. “Please. No more.”

His voice might have twisted as well, for Thancred moved closer to him, and his face was—compassionate.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, and Ikael did not cry out, but he wanted to—Thancred said, “If something does happen to me, Ikael, it will be by my hand. And the only role you will ever play in it,”

He leaned closer. Ikael looked at him, helpless. Thancred said, “Will be the role of a saviour.”

Ikael grabbed his own breastplate and pulled, tried to wrench it away in one movement, even if he could not. Thancred helped him; calm hands, nimble fingers, and then Ikael was wearing only his undertunic, and he was shaking, violently, and grasped out.

Thancred caught him, took Ikael’s arm in turn and caught his wild gaze while he pulled him closer. Ikael wanted to scream, to cry—he did neither of those things. He always wanted to scream and cry, maybe. He did not.

Instead he shuddered, shook, let Thancred’s grip turn into a gentle embrace, and let himself hear soft noises and perhaps feel comfort. For here was an arm that was reaching out, here was a friend to brush away the edge of loneliness.

“I’m sorry,” he said—choked. Thancred hushed him. He said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please, forgive me—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” was the reply. Thancred stroked his shoulder, a soft touch on the gutting of the blade—and Ikael—

—Wanted to

Sob—

He said, “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me. Please don’t die. I can’t—”

“Shh,” said Thancred.

“Please,” Ikael echoed. He did not know what to do.

“It’s alright,” said Thancred.

Ikael choked on a breath, and coughed it out with a gasp.

“You don’t have to always be strong,” Thancred said. “I’ve got you.”

Please. “Can I—” He needed to ask. Did he need to ask? “Please—”

“Yes,” said Thancred.

Ikael sobbed.

He cried, and he gave in, fell weakly, helplessly weeping. Thancred shushed him, made quiet noises, was perfect. So perfect, and amazing. Please don’t die. Please. I love you.

He was slumped against Thancred, mostly not carrying his own weight, head on Thancred’s chest. The arms around him were not his own. He hiccupped, small. Thancred hummed a short tune at him.  

“Please,” he said.

“I promise,” Thancred said back. “And when I break that promise, it will be mine own fault. Not yours. Never yours.”

He had a few tears left in him, apparently. He sniffled. “Thank you,” he said.

Thancred pressed his chin briefly to the top of his head. “Any time, Ikael,” he said quietly.

“We will always be there.”

~*~

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thancred's just sort of there lol I feel like he's one of the only people who isn't in some degree of quasi-hero-worship haze about the WoL  
> i had a lot of feelings about stuff i was Sad so i wrote this to cope


End file.
